


To conceal

by valiantfindekano



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: Celene is not a morning person. Briala is sensible. Michel will never learn to put two and two together.





	

The fact that breakfast is generally the least stressful meal of the day does not mean that it is a relaxing affair. As Celene pours out a third cup from her second pot of tea this morning, she is also shuffling a number of hand-drafted reports around the table in front of her, careful not to let the edges brush up against the pastries on her plate. Less than an hour before she needs to attend a tedious, diplomatic council, and even though she has already reviewed everything the attendees wish her to consider, she won’t forgive herself if they aren’t committed to memory less than perfectly. At least she’s starting to feel a little more awake.  

On most mornings, she prefers to enjoy this first meal alone. Every now and then, however, she has to entertain important guests, like the utterly intolerable King of Ferelden who pronounces everything wrong and laughs at his own witless jokes. Fortunately, her company is sometimes here because of her own, genuine invitation. It’s a mixture of kindness on her part and her champion’s unwavering duty that sees Ser Michel sitting to her right this morning, occasionally glancing over the papers she hands to him, nodding at her words even though they both know that she’s muttering to herself.

She sighs, sets the teacup down in front of her after a long sip, and absently rubs at her shoulder. Briala had styled her hair elaborately to one side; the effect was glamorous, but it does put a lot of weight to that side. The last thing Celene wants is to be tilting her head like a puppy all morning, and she experimentally tries to rearrange some of the loose ringlets.  

“Do you have the Baron’s demands over there?” she asks after a moment, glancing up for a second. For some reason, the comment seems to have inspired a bemused look in Michel, which he has the sense to try and hide.

“Right here, Majesty.” For a second, he seems like he’s about to add something else, but evidently he thinks better of it.

Celene’s lips purse. “You may speak your mind, Ser Michel.” How many times has she had to say so? She appreciates his discretion, but she never likes the idea that someone is holding things back from her.

Her champion’s expression wavers for a second. “Did you … rest well, Majesty?”

That has nothing to do with the Baron’s finely scripted demands. Celene blinks, but she knows better than to blush even when that simple comment brings back more than a few pleasant recollections from last night. _Briala waiting for her in bed. Briala’s kisses across her cheeks, her ears, up and down her neck and throat and collarbone. Briala holding her and stroking her and caressing her, her name on Briala’s lips, Briala’s taste in her mouth._

Celene reaches for her plate, chews thoughtfully on a ripe summer berry while she tries to decide what he could possibly mean by that question. “Every moment I can afford to rest is dear to me,” she finally answers.

Michel gives a noncommittal hum, turning his head to frown at a portrait on the opposite wall. His tells can be very obvious, and though Celene remains affectionate, she’s always thought her champion a little too dull for it to represent a real liability. Obedient, unrivalled at what he does, but nearly impossible to engage in a good debate about books, unfortunately.

“There is something else you want to say?”

Michel keeps his gaze averted. “You should keep your hair worn over your shoulder.”

Hmm? Celene glances down, frowning. “The fashion is towards symmetry at the moment,” she answers, wondering if she ought to explain her reasoning about not wanting the precocious puppy head tilt. Even Michel would have to laugh at that.

“What about …” There it is — a blush on his face, of all things, though he’s sensible enough to keep his voice too low for the guards stationed outside to overhear anything when he continues. “You, ah. I assume … last night … was it fun?”

_Briala’s fingers in her hair, arms around her waist, her curls brushing against Celene’s cheek as she trailed kisses and soft bites along her shoulders …_

_Oh._

The letter in Celene’s hands drops unceremoniously to the table, the corner landing in a carefully-styled tower of crème tarts while her fingers fly to reconstruct Briala’s careful work. Even as skilled at the Game as she is, it’s virtually impossible to stop a bit of colour from rising in her cheeks, and she prays her makeup is enough to conceal it.

It’s her cursed pale skin. She bruises like a peach. They’d been careful, but even Briala’s tender fingers are enough to leave imprints, beautiful reminders of their passion …

To her right, Michel just laughs quietly. “Nothing wrong with it, Majesty. At least your handmaiden had the sense to hide it for you.”

And Celene has to laugh too, at that.  


End file.
